


Dirge

by Oricalle



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Azure Moon Route, Azure Moon Spoilers, Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, No Gore, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), i'm big sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-04 23:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21205559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oricalle/pseuds/Oricalle
Summary: As the Kingdom's army arrives at Enbarr, Dorothea puts on a final performance to rouse the living and wake the dead, if only for one last night.





	Dirge

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Three Houses Fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/530192) by Merimerz. 

> This piece contains spoilers for the Azure Moon Route of Fire Emblem: Three Houses!
> 
> This fic was inspired by a lovely piece I saw on Twitter by Merimerz!
> 
> https://twitter.com/merimerz/status/1187466092316217350

For the first Saturday evening in a hundred years, the gates to the Mittelfrank Opera House are closed.

Around the city, preparations are being made for the coming battle. King Dimitri’s army waits just outside of the gates, and the air is thick with anticipation. The citizens of Enbarr barricade their homes and prepare to take to the streets or weather the storm, and the joy of music is far from their minds.

But it is Mittelfrank, and there is always a show.

Inside the auditorium, beneath its sweeping ceilings and marble statues, a lone woman takes a stage designed for many. When she gazes out at the crowd, she does not see her adoring masses, come in droves to lavish her with praise, but three shadowed figures, barely visible in the dim light. 

Dorothea Arnault begins to sing.

It is an aria for the lost, from a somber drama she’s played nearly every role in over the years. She knows the song by heart, but today it feels different, as if it has finally revealed its full nature to her.

As the first few notes float away from her, she remembers discussing the show with Bernadetta. The timid girl who loved to read, whisked away on fantastical adventures in the pages of a book, far from the fear that surrounded her every day. Dorothea remembers Bernadetta’s tears as she recounted her father’s cruelty, the way her eyes went wide at the mere mention of his name. She sang this song to her, once, low and slow, a makeshift lullaby to dry the tears of her dear friend.

Bernadetta von Varley had been the first to die at Gronder Field. 

She had rushed to a waiting ballista, finally casting aside her fear to fight for those she treasured. Dorothea remembered the pride that had swelled within her at Bernie’s newfound bravery, and then the horror that had come when the enemy rushed her first, and all of that fear returned. Bernadetta’s eyes were wide and her hands were trembling when Sylvain Gautier ran her down on his steed, a look of grim determination on his face when his lance pierced her chest.

Edelgard had laid a laurel on her grave. An ancient Adrestian tradition to honor the fearless.

As the song enters its bridge, Dorothea raises her arms to the ceiling, belting out a high note that had taken weeks of practice. She sees Edelgard, high atop the royal balcony, shift forward in her seat, a small smile on her face.  
It is the first time in a year she has seen Edelgard smile.

To her right sits Hubert, as always, boredom in his eyes but a dagger in his hands. To her left, an empty seat. Tradition dictates that this is the place of the Emperor’s physician, an honored title for the realm’s most accomplished white mage.

But Linhardt von Hevring has been dead for a month.

He had grumbled when he was sent to Fort Merceus, rolling his eyes and complaining of muscleheaded soldiers impeding his research, but when Caspar agreed to accompany him, the healer seemed slightly less dismal. A fortress was no place for someone like Linhardt, who had no interest in war or battle, who only wished to learn the secrets the world kept hidden. Caspar had promised him first pick of the tomes in his family’s library, the esteemed Bergliez household now waiting masterless as Randolph’s body slept beneath Garreg Mach.

When the Kingdom had attacked, Linhardt was healing the wounded. Caspar stood before the doors, his knuckles bloody and his armor scuffed, driving his fists desperately against the horde of invading forces, toppling one after another only to watch two more rise in their place. When he finally fell, Linhardt had pleaded peace with the Faerghus battalion, and sat over his oldest friend’s broken corpse, whispering hollow words about the wastefulness of war.

The weapon that had come, nameless and unstoppable, had reduced both of them to ash.

It was that day that Dorothea first saw Hubert shaken, his jaw slack as he heard the news of Merceus’ destruction. Something between disgust and rage hovered around him, but only for a moment.

There was, of course, still work to be done.

The song’s chorus, about a noble prince, should have brought to mind one of the slew of actors who had played opposite Dorothea. The handsome duke from Leicester, perhaps, or the dashing young acting coach who had taught her to play the crowd. 

All she could think about was Ferdinand.

Ferdinand, who believed in nobility, from the heart and not the pockets.

Ferdinand, who swore to Dorothea that he would change the world for her.

Ferdinand, who smiled and laughed as if the world around him needed his cheer as much as his lance.

Ferdinand, whose corpse was burned outside of the Great Bridge, his handsome countenance left unrecognizable by the Thunder spell that stopped his heart.

As Dorothea’s aria came to a close, someone close to the stage cheered. There was Petra, ever the optimist, a grin still decorating her beautiful face.

Tomorrow, one of Shamir Nevrand’s arrows would find her neck.

She would die with Dorothea’s name on her lips, never to see her homeland again.

Hubert stood, clapping languidly, his mind elsewhere.

He would fight off the Kingdom until his magical reserves were spent, then he would rush Byleth with a knife, defiant until the Sword of the Creator runs him through.

Edelgard beamed down, her shadow looming across the stage despite her petite form.

She would bleed out, cold and alone, before a throne she never truly wanted.

Dorothea’s fate, however, was the worst of all.

Dorothea Arnault would live.

She would be trapped beneath a fallen beam, screaming as Petra fell, then Hubert, then Edelgard, weeping until Mercedes would pull her from the rubble and wrap arms around her chest.

She would parlay with Dimitri after the battle, exchanging apologies and memories and promises about burials and memorials. (“Please let them have their graves.”)

She would scatter Petra’s ashes across the beaches of Brigid, and she would want to die, but want so much more to sing.

She would sing of an archer girl, timid and frail but with the heart of a lion.

She would sing of a wise mage, who could heal anyone but himself.

She would sing of a warrior, who defended his friends with his life.

She would sing of a nobleman, who believed in the hearts of humanity.

She would sing of a foreign princess, who had taught as much as she had learned.

She would sing of a spymaster, whose greatest secret was his loyalty.

She would sing of an emperor, who cloaked a fragile heart in steel and flame and only wept when she thought no one was watching.

This was not the final opera house Dorothea would perform in.

It was the last that would not be haunted.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! A special huge thank you to Merimerz for making such awesome art! I must admit that I don't really use Twitter myself, though, so I hope someone else tells them! Sorry X.x
> 
> I'm having some writer's block with the next chapter of Luck of the Draw, so I've been seeking out some little pieces of art to write drabbles on and help me get some of my juice back. I Must Reclaim Juice.
> 
> This piece gave me so many feelings and I love the setup, anyone who's read any of my other work probably knows I adore the Black Eagles dearly. However, I also adore the tragedy of Three Houses, and this was a great opportunity to explore a little of that. Feedback is welcome as always!


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